


your heartbeat is a symphony (and your blood is singing just for me)

by Siavahda



Series: Silver Symphonies [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bondage, Boys in Chains, Creeper Peter Hale, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gaslighting, Knotting, M/M, Mating Bond, Mind Games, Mindfuck, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Porn With Plot, Sex Toys, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stockholm Syndrome, Victim Blaming, Werewolf Culture, Werewolf Mates, Werewolf Turning, doesn't mean what you think it means, werewolf powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 02:51:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13044966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siavahda/pseuds/Siavahda
Summary: Stiles is his mate, and a Spark. The latter means that Peter can’t Turn him.The former means that he’ll Turn himself.





	your heartbeat is a symphony (and your blood is singing just for me)

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually originally based off a dream I had about these two, but it ended up being more fucked-up-romantic than the plain dirty-bad-wrong I was going for. Oh well.
> 
> Also, I apparently can’t resist doing stupid amounts of worldbuilding even for a damn _smut one-shot_. I’m probably the only one surprised at this point. But yeah: leave your preconceptions about omegas at the door, please. They don’t apply here.
> 
> Enjoy! And let me know if I missed something that needs tagging~

Peter laps lazily at the mess of slick and seed dripping down the trembling thighs spread apart by his clawed hands, savouring the taste and the soft, keening whimpers that answer every stroke of his tongue. By the time he reaches that wet, red-raw hole, stuffed full with a toy that buzzes against Peter’s lips, his mate’s whole body is shaking for him.

Peter nudges the base of the vibrator with his tongue and teeth and Stiles makes a choked, desperate sound around the bit-gag, his sweat-slick body twisting helplessly as if it can’t decide whether to try and escape the touch or beg for more. The chains binding the boy’s limbs rattle and clink as he strains at them, when Peter sheaths his claws to better play with the vibrator, idly toying with it as Stiles’ hips buck, grinding down into sheets that are thick with the scents of sweat and tears and sex, the smell of teenage boy overlaid with the claiming stamp of _Alpha_.

There’s no part of him that isn’t branded with Peter’s scent by now. Inside or out.

“Are you ready to be a good boy, Stiles?” he asks, letting his fingers slip and slide against Stiles’ slickly gleaming hole, feeling the buzz of the toy in his fingertips. Stiles jerks, and Peter shudders with delight at the sound he makes, the sob of negation and need so deliciously muffled by the gag forced between his swollen lips, bound between his teeth. He tries to hide his face in the pillow, but Peter grabs at his sweat-dark hair with his free hand, bends down to lick at the corner of Stiles’ mouth, tasting the velvety silicone of the gag’s edge and the saliva dripping from around it, the salt on Stiles’ skin that’s as much from tears as sweat. He holds Stiles still to be tasted, and feels the boy tremble with that gut-clenching cocktail of disgust and desire. “Are you ready to admit that you’re mine yet?”

He keeps his thumb gently pushing at the vibrator whenever it threatens to slip out and slides his other fingers down between the boy’s thighs, stroking firm circles over Stiles’ perineum that make the chains rattle again, that make Stiles moan and his spine arch like polished ivory, hips raising and _presenting_ to his Alpha like the wolf his body already knows he should be. Every line of him is a work of art, and every line of him is begging for it, keening whines spilling out from behind the gag with every motion of Peter’s fingers. Peter hungers to lap them directly from the boy’s mouth, but he can’t: the band holding Stiles’ gag in place is smooth around his skull, with no buckle, no fastening, no way to remove it.

Peter didn’t put it there. He would never do anything to silence the sounds Stiles’ makes for his touch, however it excites the predator in him to hear them choked-off and muffled; he wants every whimper, every moan and gasping curse, every pleasure-tortured sob, wants to hear Stiles cry his name as if crying out to God. He wants to hear every sound as clear as crystal, gather them all up and hoard them with the jealous greed of a dragon with its gold.

Stiles’ eyes will become something even rarer than gold, when he Turns; something peerless and priceless. Very, very soon. Peter can almost taste it.

“You know that you are,” he murmurs, low and silken. He draws his lips down Stiles’ neck, following the artery there, and as Stiles shivers all down his length, as his chin moves unconsciously to bare his throat for Peter’s mouth, Peter catches the base of the vibrator with his thumb to tilt it sharply upwards, and Stiles cries out against his gag, his slender hips rocking into the sheets. “You were born for me, Stiles, and me alone. The moment I touched you on the lacrosse field, I knew. I know you felt it; the skip in your pulse as my claws touched your throat and you grabbed my wrist, the instant our heart-beats fell into sync. You may not be able to feel the mate-bond until you Turn, but you felt that. You _know_. Your heart will beat in time with mine until the day we die.”

Stiles tries to shake his head in pointless denial, but Peter has his hand fisted tightly in Stiles’ hair; it’s grown longer since they’ve been here, since Peter recognised the priceless treasure he’d found and dropped everything—the Martin girl’s bloodied body, the need to gather in his wayward nephew and the incompetent Scott and bring them to heel, even his quest for vengeance against those who murdered his family—to whisk the boy away to safety, to somewhere no one can find Peter or his vulnerable human mate, a comfortable and protected den for Stiles to take the Bite and Peter to guide him through the change.

Or so had been Peter’s intention. Not even his hunger for Kate Argent’s blood could overcome the marrow-deep need to cement the mate-bond; only the years of agonised patience taught him by his coma had kept him from taking Stiles in the back-seat of Jennifer’s car, as appropriate an ending to the night as that would have been, given the high school dance he’d rescued Stiles from. And Peter would have shown him an incomparably better time than some fumbling teenage girl—he would have made of Stiles’ first time a memory seared into his very bones with bliss, would have filled him so full and sweet he cried with the pleasure of it, with Peter holding and kissing him through every sob, licking away his tears—

He _did_ do that. They did. All of it. But not in the car; Peter’s control lasted long enough to avoid that cliché. Because his mate deserved better than that, deserved a sin-soft bed where they could take their time in comfort— _after_ Stiles had Turned, when he could feel their bond for himself and experience the full ecstasy of joining with his mate, the legendary pleasure to which no merely human sex, no matter how exquisite, could compare.

He had wanted that for Stiles. For his mate. He still did. He’d sheathed himself between the boy’s thighs dozens of times now, unable to wait, and knew the bliss for himself; he couldn’t wait for Stiles to know it too. There would be no more need for chains once Stiles opened himself to their bond, yielded to their star-graven fate to be together and Turned into the beautiful wolf Peter knew he would be.

With that intoxicating thought in mind, Peter loosens his grip and cards his fingers through Stiles’ hair, gently drawing his nails over the boy’s sensitive skull, drifting down to palm his nape, stroking the length of the perfect curve of his spine. “You know it’s true,” he says again, almost purring, revelling in the trembling running all through Stiles’ body, the small helpless jerks of his hips as Peter’s other hand works between his legs, letting the vibrator _almost_ slip out before pushing it back in deep, over and over. “Your body knows it. Your beautiful magic knows it.” And oh, what a surprise _that_ had been, the boy’s star-bright Spark, lying dormant until the first time Peter had tried to give (a struggling, tearful-defiant, yelling and cursing) Stiles the Bite, and then catching fire beneath Peter’s teeth. It had attacked the trespass of the Bite’s power as viciously as any wolf defending its territory, instantly searing every trace of it from Stiles’ veins, but Peter had been so proud, once he’d recovered from the shock; he’d kissed Stiles’ protests into moans with the boy’s blood still on his lips, so full of pride and delight and hunger at the revelation—which should have been no revelation, which Peter should have been _expecting,_ because Stiles was _his_ and so of course he was perfect—that Stiles came to him with such a peerless dowry, with power rich as wine and the full moon’s light blazing inside of him. “Or else why are you still here, sweetheart?”

A Spark’s magic spun their truest desires into reality, and over and over again Stiles’ had made his deepest wishes clear. _Peter_ hadn’t been the one to bind Stiles in chains, face-down and legs spread helplessly wide; _Peter_ hadn’t made the boy’s buzz-cut grow out so unnaturally quickly, until his hair was long enough for Peter to twist his fingers in; _Peter_ hadn’t been the one to gag Stiles’ beautiful mouth. The boy had done that to himself, humiliated by the sounds he made when Peter played his body like an instrument, drawing such sweet music from his lips.

Or perhaps Stiles was just terrified of what he might find himself saying, if he allowed himself to speak.

But he couldn’t wish himself free. He didn’t desire escape enough for his magic to teleport him back to his father’s house, his childhood bed. And no matter how he cried or snarled, thrashed or pulled away from Peter’s touch, his Spark never so much as singed Peter’s fingertips.

“It’s because you know,” Peter tells him softly. “Would you be here if you didn’t? Could I hold you here if it was truly against your will, my beautiful Spark?” His hand caresses Stiles’ side; between the boy’s legs, Peter finally lets the toy slip free and instantly pushes his own thumb into the hot, slick silk of his mate’s hole, groaning quietly at the way Stiles _grips_ him, all greedy need. Stiles _shakes_ under him, makes a sweetly broken noise, and Peter kisses his jaw in reward, open-mouthed.

“You could destroy me with one wish,” he whispers, his voice gone hoarse. “One true, heart-felt wish, and I’d be dead and you’d be free. But you don’t want that, do you?” He thrusts slowly, lingeringly, his thumb inside Stiles and his fingertips stroking just behind the boy’s balls. “You want to be mine so badly you chained yourself to our bed.”

Stiles sobs, his shoulders hunching with the bitter scent of shame, and instantly Peter is crooning, tilting Stiles’ head to the side so Peter can nuzzle at his face, pressing soothing, reassuring, loving kisses to Stiles’ tear-streaked cheeks, his damp eyelashes.

“Ssh, sweetheart, no—you have nothing to be ashamed of. You’re my mate, born to want me, to be mine. The only surprise is that your Spark hasn’t put a collar and leash on _me_ yet, to tie me to you.” That gets through; Peter smirks at the stutter of Stiles’ pulse, the surprise and uncertainty and sharp spike of desire. He runs his tongue over Stiles’ lower lip. “Everyone you’ve ever loved has left you,” he murmurs. “Your mother died, your father vanished into his work and his bottle. The Lydia girl never looked twice at you, even Scott’s been pulling away since he Turned, since he’s grown stronger, hasn’t he? Of course your magic made sure that _now,_ now you’ve found the one person who will never, ever leave you, your short-sighted human fear wouldn’t ruin it for you. Your power is wiser than your conscious mind, Stiles.”

Stiles whimpers, and tries to hide his face again, shaking like he might break under the truth of it, but Peter won’t let him—won’t let him hide, and won’t let him break. He kisses insistently at the corner of Stiles’ mouth, his cheeks, licking his tears away as Peter exchanges the thumb inside Stiles for his index finger, so smoothly Stiles can only gasp as the longer length of it sinks into him.

“Because I won’t,” Peter whispers. “I won’t ever leave you, Stiles. You never have to be alone again, you’ll never _be_ alone again.” He adds a second slow finger, though Stiles doesn’t need it, has never needed it. He still moans around the gag for it, though. “You already know it, deep down, and when you Turn you’ll _feel_ it, how tightly bound we are, to the last breath and beyond. How wholly I am yours, as you are mine.” His fingers thrust slowly, leisurely and sweet, the sound of it slick and obscene with how wet Stiles is for him. Always dripping wet, whenever Peter touches him, his Spark begging for Peter even while the boy is too proud and afraid to beg with words. “I breathe because you breathe; my heart beats in time with yours, and I’ll follow you even when it stops, Stiles, even in death you won’t be alone—”

Stiles makes a choked, broken sound and twists against the chains, against Peter’s fingers, into and away from the digits fucking him so tenderly, squeezing his eyes shut as if he can’t bear it, any of it, the pleasure or the gentleness, as if he doesn’t know how to be a treasured thing, a beloved thing.

But that’s why he has Peter. To teach him. Show him. Prove it to him, every day and night for the rest of their lives—

“You’ve felt it all your life, haven’t you?” Peter murmurs, pressing his lips to the back of Stiles’ neck. Curving his fingers to stroke the boy’s prostate just right, just the right way to make Stiles buck against him, thrusting into the mattress with an achingly sweet cry. “The emptiness. That hollow space inside you, begging to be filled.” He pushes a third finger into Stiles to make his point, feeling the red bleed into his eyes at how Stiles sobs and ruts into it, the chains at his ankles clinking as his legs spread wider of their own accord, offering, pleading. “And you were so good,” Peter praises, his voice rough, “so smart, Stiles, you could have hurt yourself trying to fill that space, so many people would have—turned to drink or drugs or cutting, picking fights or starting fires, but you didn’t, did you? You just threw yourself into learning anything and everything, into taking care of your father and Scott, let it make you fierce and loyal and clever instead of breaking you. All that need, and you channelled it all, kept yourself safe and whole for me. You perfect boy.”

Stiles shakes his head frantically, desperately, even as the rest of his body shakes too, shaking and shaking as Peter’s fingers stroke in and out of his soaked, clinging hole just a little faster, a little deeper.

“Because it _was_ for me,” Peter whispers against Stiles’ ear. “That empty space is where I’m meant to fit inside you, Stiles, it’s where our bond will anchor in you when you Turn. Don’t you want to feel that? Don’t you want to be full and whole at last? Don’t you crave it, to belong to me, to open to me, to feel me so deep inside you I can never, ever leave you?”

He moves his fingers harder. Deeper. Faster, as Stiles’ breathing quickens, hitching with almost-sobs, with broken little whines of denial and need in equal measure. The scent of him is intoxicating, makes Peter’s mouth water, and even knowing that the Spark makes Stiles immune to the Bite he can feel his teeth aching to change, to hone to star-splinter points and bury themselves in the meat of Stiles’ shoulder. Or better yet, his throat, the smooth perfect curve of his neck that he flashes like a flirt every time he half-writhes, proof that whatever he tells himself, beneath it all he know what he is: Peter’s mate, an _Alpha’s_ mate, for only such a one would be so coquettish with a wolf so dangerous as Peter is. Only one who knew, however unconsciously, his own power—not over magic, but over _Peter_ —would tease an Alpha so.

Stiles’ eyes won’t be blue, when he Turns. But they won’t be gold, either. Not this one. Not Peter’s perfect boy.

He presses his lips against the soft, sweet spot behind Stiles’ ear, scrapes it gently with his teeth, and feels Stiles shudder all down his length, clamping down on Peter’s fingers. “Don’t you want to swallow me whole?” Peter breathes. “I know you feel it. That greed, that need, savage and dark and raw.” His fingertips draw circles over the boy’s prostate, and Stiles jerks under him, hips canting up and then away, torn between rutting back on Peter’s fingers and trying to resist them. But he can’t; he never could. Never _will_. “You want to be owned, and you want to _own,_ don’t you? Bind me, leash me, tie me to you so I _can’t_ leave, even if I ever wanted to.”

Stiles shudders under him, and Peter can smell the lust and craving rising from his pores, can scent the touch-starved truth of it on him. Because Stiles _does_ want that, is desperate for that, the _certainty_ that someone will never leave. All Peter’s perfect words can’t give him that; words can be false, tongues can lie, and Stiles can’t yet hear just how steady the Alpha’s pulse is as he makes his promises.

So many people have broken their promises to Stiles before. Is it any wonder the poor boy resists, when to him it must sound too good to be true?

All Peter can do is ensnare Stiles in his own want until his magic opens his eyes to the truth of Peter’s every word. And that’s no chore at all.

“But you already have,” Peter whispers, like a secret. Like something sacred, which it _is_. “You already own me, Stiles. The claim goes both ways, and I’m right here, waiting for you to take me. All you have to do is take me.”

Stiles makes a sharp, high sound of protest as Peter withdraws his fingers, knowing what’s coming. He wrenches on the chains, his muscles straining and pulling the metal links taut and tight as Peter settles himself between his mate’s legs, his slickened fingers closing around the sweet jut of Stiles’ hip bone, burying his face in the crook of Stiles’ neck, open-mouthed, breathing deep. His teeth catch on Stiles’ pounding pulse-point even as the boy struggles, fierce and desperate as any tender fawn caught beneath a wolf’s weight; he tries to shout something around the gag, something angry and frantic and _no,_ something his own magic won’t let him say because he doesn’t mean it. He never means it.

Peter raises Stiles’ hips just-so, lifting and holding him effortlessly, and he can smell the heady perfume of the youth’s lust, a wolf-cub’s first sweet heat, the salt of tears and the tang of adolescent pre-come in equal measure; can hear the half-snarls, half-sobs Stiles chokes out around the gag and the siren-song of his racing heart; and most of all, best of all, is the searing, silken, _sublime_ embrace of Stiles’ body as Peter sinks his cock into his mate in one long, loving, inexorable thrust.

“Take me, Stiles,” he whispers, hoarse as he brushes his lips against the boy’s ear. Sheathing himself to the hilt inside that beautiful, exquisite body, inch by furnace-hot and fist-tight inch. “Take me, and keep me, and know I’ll never leave you.”

Their hips slot together like puzzle pieces, just like always.

Stiles is crying under him, shaking and shaking as if he might fly apart into a thousand pieces. Peter shudders with the bliss of it, sees the world through a crimson haze as he wraps one arm around Stiles’ waist, holding him up, holding him together. Cradling that smaller, softer body against his, enfolding him close and safe.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart, I have you,” he soothes, pressing soft kisses to his shoulder, the back of his neck, his throat. “Such a good boy for me. My perfect mate. You always take me so well, Stiles. So perfect, so perfect for _me.”_

He waits, murmuring gilded praise against Stiles’ skin through the boy’s wracking sobs. Even their first time together, Peter hadn’t lost control with his fragile, vulnerable mate—though moons full and new, he had come close, _so_ close, overwhelmed beyond imagining by the soul-searing _bliss_ of joining with his mate, the unearthly pleasure none of the mate-bond stories could ever have prepared him for—and by now he’s well-practised at leashing the howling part of him that wants to sink its teeth into the back of his mate’s neck and _rut_ him. Stiles would break and shatter if Peter took him that way, in his full Alpha form with an Alpha’s full strength, and Stiles’ Spark would probably, hopefully put him back together—but the thought of his mate screaming in pain instead of pleasure makes Peter sick, sicker than wolfsbane, sicker than the scent and taste that had clogged his nose and throat as his family burned alive. That kind of sex will have to wait until Stiles Turns.

It’s Peter’s torturous pleasure to wait, the sweetest hell. Stiles is exquisite like this, a perfect incubus, flushed and tear-stained and unable to stop shivering, trembling in Peter’s embrace, rippling and clamping around Peter’s cock again and again as if he’s _trying_ to drive Peter rabid. It feels just like their first time, Stiles’ every twitch and quiver stroking shockwaves through his Alpha’s cock, just as hellfire-hot inside as he was the first time Peter mounted him, his body just as much a slut-silk vise gripping Peter almost too tightly for either of them to bear. And Peter has tried before, he has, tried to open Stiles up soft and slow, spent hours fucking him open with fingers and tongue to try and make it easier for the boy’s body to take him—but his Spark won’t allow it, _Stiles_ won’t allow it, locks up breathtakingly tight again the moment the head of Peter’s cock brushes his hole. He forces Peter to force him open every time, slowly and gently and irresistibly carving his flesh to fit his Alpha, and Peter can understand that perfectly, the craving for the pain, the _proof_ of it, because pain makes things real in a way nothing else can.

But not too much. Peter will give Stiles the pain he wants, the pain he _needs,_ but no more than that. Just enough to make Stiles feel full and taken and claimed, just enough to prove that Peter is here and his and wants him, _has_ him. Not enough to really hurt him. Never.

Peter waits, and nuzzles, and strokes a soothing hand down his mate’s trembling body, over and over, petting him. He rumbles low in his throat, a wolf’s purr, Stiles’ scent so heady it almost makes Peter dizzy, and it’s so much more than having a tight hole around his cock, a beautiful body under his. The physical pleasure is heightened a thousandfold by the bond, by the sense-taste of _mate,_ by being so close to the one who was born for him. Everywhere they touch it’s lightning, searing-sweet, and Peter’s entire body is alight with a bliss so intense it really ought to terrify him; every nerve-ending turned to diamond, every sense awash in _Stiles,_ a terribly beautiful _(beautifully terrible)_ euphoric ecstasy flooding him until it feels as though Peter might break apart around it, shatter into stardust, unable to contain it all and keep still.

And yet, and yet. Even with his body howling to move, it’s paradoxically easy to hold himself back. Because Stiles is still human, and needs Peter to wait.

Peter continues stroking him, waiting out the storm of Stiles’ tears, the boy’s body heaving and jerking under his, clenching so tight as he tries to twist away from Peter’s embrace, rattling uselessly at his chains. There’s a muffled, shocked moan drawn from his throat as he accidentally—or perhaps not so accidentally—drags his prostate against Peter’s cock, and it takes every scrap of patience Peter learned in his coma not to grab the boy’s thighs and _thrust_ as Stiles jolts at the pleasure he pretends not to want.

But gradually, as always, Stiles tires himself out, his coy struggles slowly easing to a helpless, sin-sweet shivering, and Peter kisses the back of his neck in approval, presses his mouth to Stiles’ shoulder and throat. He brushes the thumb of his free hand in an ever-decreasing circle around one of Stiles’ nipples, until he’s dragging his thumbprint lightly over pebbled flesh, his tongue tracing the line of the artery running down his mate’s neck.

“Good boy,” Peter murmurs, and Stiles makes a soft, helpless sound, as if it hurts, as if he’s been starving for approval for so long it’s painful to finally get it. Peter’s hand sweeps downwards, briefly pressing flat over Stiles’ heart, feeling for himself the pulse that’s echoed in his own chest; he lets his hips roll, just a little, and his blood burns as Stiles moans again, as the boy’s body moves with his unconsciously, unthinkingly, unable not to. Enslaved to the feeling of his mate inside him, around him, mounting him, no matter how he tries to deny it, and to prove the point Peter’s fingertips skim lower, over Stiles’ trembling abdomen, his youthful softness that makes the Alpha’s mouth water—

And Stiles jolts, suddenly, twists his body  away from Peter’s hand in a sharp, desperate movement that has Peter seeing stars, his hips pulling back and snapping in hard and sweet and deep even as he sets his teeth into the back of his mate’s neck to hold him still for it, _make_ him take it the way he wants to be made to take it, the cocaine-cry muffled by the gag as Peter drove into him breaking into a despairing sob as Peter’s hand closes around the boy’s cock and finds what Stiles didn’t want him to find.

Because he’s hard and dripping wet—of course he is, how could he be anything else with his mate’s scent in his lungs, his mate’s hands on him, his mate’s teeth holding him pinned for his mate’s cock?—but where Peter expected nothing but slickened, throbbing flesh, he finds smooth metal too.

He stills. Stiles sobs again, and Peter can smell his tears, can taste the humiliation on his skin; he tries to hide in the pillow again, but he’s locked in Peter’s teeth and can’t go anywhere, can’t do anything but shake as Peter runs a wondering fingertip down the bands of metal, dark delight spilling through him like wine as he realises what this is. He does it again, with a claw this time, and thrills at the sound of keratin clicking against steel, even as Stiles whimpers as the sharp edge whispers, so very, very gently, over the sensitive skin between the bars.

Bars that are so very slippery with teenage pre-come.

Peter releases Stiles’ neck as tenderly as any kiss; the threads of blood that trickle from the marks of his teeth are as beautiful as henna. He laps at the shallow wounds lovingly. “Oh, Stiles,” he purrs, smears of blood on his lips as he nuzzles at his mate’s throat. “Every time I think you couldn’t be more perfect, you manage to surprise me.” Claws sheathed, he traces the shape of the metal toy Stiles magicked up for himself, down to the ring that loops behind the boy’s balls, cutting off any possibility of orgasm. In other circumstances, it might evince Stiles’ desire not to come at all, not with Peter, a refusal of the pleasure Peter can give him…but even without seeing the toy, Peter can feel how it differs from the gag, from the chains. Unlike them, the cage is not seamless. Nor does it have the kind of lock Peter thinks is standard for this sort of device; no need for a key Peter does not have. Which leaves only one conclusion… “Did you do this for me, sweetheart? Did you not want to come until I was inside you?”

Stiles whines and ducks his head, but his spine arches in the same motion, a stuttering jerk of his hips that pulls a growl of pleasure from low in Peter’s throat. It’s all the confirmation he needs, and he rewards his mate with a long, leisurely thrust that grinds against the boy’s prostate; Stiles moans helplessly, pushing back against it with such beautiful, hedonistic need.

 _“Such_ a good boy for me,” Peter breathes, husky. “Clever, wicked boy.” He rolls his hips again, drawing another shuddering moan from his mate, and presses his lips to Stiles’ ear. “But I’m inside you now, Stiles,” he whispers, and feels Stiles’ shudder travel all down his body, his cunt trembling and clamping reflexively around Peter’s cock as he whimpers. “So perhaps we can dispense with this now, hm?”

Stiles makes a high, wordless sound as Peter’s nail finds the catch on the toy, one that could be distress or desire or equal parts both, and Peter rides out a wave of purely animal hunger: he wants to lick the dripping bars while Stiles whimpers and writhes, wants to take Stiles’ caged cock in his mouth and suck until his mate sobs and begs for release, banishes the gag just to tell Peter how badly he needs him. Peter might even do it—might even be willing to leave, temporarily, the hot, wet silk of Stiles’ impossibly tight body—but alas, Stiles’ chains _are_ seamless, and since he chained himself face-down, Peter wouldn’t have room to play and pleasure him properly.

Oh, well. Just another thing to add to the list of things to do to and for his mate after Stiles Turns and the chains—which Peter could snap as easily as he could tear through the band holding the gag in place, if he hadn’t decided to respect the manifestation of Stiles’ deepest desires—are gone.

It’s nothing to flip the catch open, but Peter takes his time working the cage free, relishing how Stiles bucks and jerks and whimpers under him, pushing helplessly into his hand—and, in recoiling when he catches himself doing that, driving himself back on Peter’s cock. It’s a delicious cycle Peter savours and subtly encourages, moving his hips just enough to meet Stiles’ inadvertent thrusts, increasing the pleasure Stiles can hardly deny when he’s wet and twitching in Peter’s fist, the cock cage finally drawn free and tossed away to land Peter cares-not-where, not when Stiles’ moan of relief is so very, very sweet—

“That’s it, sweetheart, that’s it,” Peter husks, his vision awash with crimson as Stiles’ control starts to fray, the boy’s fingers scrabbling at the pillow and the gag not doing enough to hide his choked sobs and helpless moans as he starts to fall into the rhythm his body knows as well as its own heartbeat; as well as it knows _Peter’s_ heartbeat. Even their first time together, with the blood of the attempted Bite still on Peter’s lips as he licked into Stiles’ cursing mouth, their bodies had instinctively known how to move together the moment Peter mounted his sweetly writhing mate. It’s even better now after all their practice at it, so good that Peter can hardly stand it, the obscene sound of Stiles’ wet cock thrusting into Peter’s slickened fist, the starfire-burst as he pushes back and Peter is there to meet him, driving forward into Stiles’ soaked, tight cunt, a little harder each time, a little deeper, opening Stiles up a little more. “Just like that. Your body knows mine, Stiles, your Spark knows me. Just like they know what you’re meant to do, what you’re meant to _be_. Just let them move you, let them take you—”

It always takes time to get Stiles to this point, to push him past his brilliant constant _thinking_ and anchor him into his body, his flesh, make him forget his fears and shames and the mythology of human morals until all he can do is _feel,_ until all that exists is Peter around and above him, moving deep inside him; until there’s nothing but the pleasure and the rightness. But Stiles falls a little faster every time, falls into it a little deeper, moves into Peter’s thrusts a little harder. His body and magic know the truth of Peter’s every whisper and Stiles’ human mind is slowly giving way, the reasons to resist eroding a little more with every stroke of Peter’s cock, every kiss, every time Peter reaches up to lace his fingers through Stiles’ bound hand.

Stiles moans through the gag, and his fingers squeeze back hard.

“That’s it, Stiles,” Peter murmurs again, husky encouragement as Stiles arches his spine, gives Peter a better angle so that every thrust drags across his prostate and makes him keen. “That’s it. So good at listening to your instincts, like you’re a wolf already.” He nuzzles Stiles’ throat, and dark delight flares in him as Stiles turns his head without thinking to bare his neck for Peter’s mouth, his teeth.

The bite he gives Stiles in reward makes the boy jerk under him, makes him spasm around Peter’s cock so that they both moan.

“So good,” Peter gasps, when he can breathe again. “God, Stiles, you’re so good, so perfect for me. Can’t wait to see you when you Turn, sweetheart; you’re going to be so beautiful. You were born to be a wolf.” He kisses the mark already darkening on Stiles’ throat and finds himself fucking Stiles harder, the hunger only deepening, growing more savage as Stiles makes a sharp noise and tries to spread his legs wider for it. He doesn’t even struggle to match the faster rhythm, their bodies falling into perfect synchronicity, and the ache of Peter’s teeth shifting sharper in his mouth only heightens every drop of pleasure. “My perfect mate, my beautiful Omega—”

Instantly he knows that something’s wrong; Stiles stiffens underneath him, and not in the prelude to a shattering orgasm. The thick, hypnotic scent of his pleasure abruptly spikes with something bitter and acidic, shock and misery and anger all tangled together, and he jerks his head away from Peter, tries to let go of his hand.

Peter won’t let him; with effort, he holds himself still, and the low rumble of an Alpha’s growl emerging from his throat makes Stiles freeze underneath him too, makes the boy stop struggling to suddenly get away from him.

“Stiles?” He closes his teeth, sharp but gentle, around Stiles’ throat for a moment, holds it for a beat. It slows Stiles’ racing heartbeat as if the boy were already a wolf, and gives Peter a chance to play back the last few seconds to try and pinpoint what just happened.

Omega. He called Stiles his Omega. He’s never done that before; it was supposed to be a surprise. But even his control can only take so much of his mate without cracking a little, it seems.

“Omega,” he murmurs, moving his mouth almost to Stiles’ ear; and yes, Stiles flinches, his shoulders hunching, his scent stinging like wolfsbane and genuine tears.

Peter is baffled, and it’s hard to think when Stiles is still tight and hot and slick around him, the pulse of him stroking Peter’s cock. But only one explanation makes any kind of sense.

He brushes his lips over Stiles’ jaw. “Stiles,” he says again, in the Alpha voice that makes his mate shudder and clench tight, makes him duck his head. “What did my nephew tell you about Omegas?”

He thinks he might have to use a claw to cut Stiles’ gag free to get an answer. He doesn’t want to—he made himself a promise to respect the choices his mate’s Spark made for him—but he will if he has to. Stiles shakes, but the only sound he makes is his quick, laboured breathing, and Peter’s nails are already lengthening into claws when he hears the soft thump of the gag hitting the mattress. Coming off on its own.

“Omegas are wolves without a pack,” Stiles says harshly, and even the bitter tone can’t stop Peter’s heart from leaping; it’s the first time he’s heard the boy’s voice in weeks. Stiles’ Spark kept him fed and healthy so his mate didn’t have to remove his gag even for _meals_. “The lowest of the low, the weakest. Worthless. Right?” Stiles is shaking his head without even waiting for Peter to answer. “God, I’m so fucking stupid, I was actually starting to, to _believe_ you—” His voice breaks, into something like a sob, and Peter’s wolf all but snarls.

_“Stiles.”_

Stiles’ mouth snaps shut, and when Peter lets go of his hand to wrap his clawed fingers around his mate’s throat instead, he can feel the seductive motion of Stiles swallowing at his touch. Can feel him trembling.

“That,” Peter breathes, silk and sandpaper—the softness for Stiles, the roughness for the nephew he will _carve into pieces_ —“is _not_ what an Omega is.”

Stiles swallows again. Hard. Peter resists the urge to bite the exact spot Stiles’ throat bobs against his palm.

“Let me guess,” he continues, trying to keep his voice level and calm even as his vision stains bloody crimson as the pieces fall into place. “Has my nephew kept you close, Stiles? Repeatedly sought you out, breached your personal space, marked your territory with his scent?”

“My—my _territory?”_ Stiles swallows again, and it still feels so sweet, but it can’t dull the rage building in the pit of Peter’s stomach. “I d-don’t—he’s been in my car, I guess? And, and he showed up in my room that one time…?”

Peter _snarls,_ and lust cuts through Stiles’ scent as it jolts through his body, his hole _clenching_ tight and greedy around Peter’s cock even as he whimpers in maybe-fear.

The reaction, the proof that his mate wants _him_ and not Derek, soothes Peter’s wolf somewhat. He releases Stiles’ throat, stroking the tips of his claws lightly over sensitive skin in an apology that makes his mate shiver.

Does Stiles even realise that he pushes a little into the sharp points? Because Peter does. It makes him twitch, throbbing and heavy, in the grip of Stiles’ body.

“He’s touched you, hasn’t he?” Peter asks, a little thickly, having to get the words around his growing fangs and the steadily increasing desire to push Stiles down into the sheets and _rut_ him until he howls Peter’s name. “He doesn’t touch Scott, but he’s touched you. He’s too graceless to know what to do when such a priceless treasure falls into his lap, so he’s probably been acting like the proverbial caveman. Dragging you around, throwing you up against the nearest wall. Am I right?”

“This is—this is a really weird conversation to be having with your _dick_ in my _ass,_ dude—”

_“Am I right?”_

That jolt of lust again, Stiles’ hips jerking back against him helplessly, making a small rolling motion that has Peter seeing stars. “Yes,” Stiles whispers.

Peter growls against Stiles’ neck, and Stiles shudders all over, whimpers. His fingers twist in the pillowcase, and without thinking Peter returns his hand there, lets Stiles grab hold and squeeze tight, needing an anchor against the surge of his body’s instinct and his magic’s intuition that both know exactly why Peter’s angry.

Know, and _like_ it.

“He knows what you are, sweetheart.” Peter’s free hand strokes Stiles’ hip as he moves, slowly drawing back only to sheath himself root-deep in his mate’s body again. He strokes his cock in and out of that wet, hot sheath, deliberately torturing them both, lazily, possessively caressing Stiles’ prostate until the boy is moaning and arching into him, pleading for more—and God, he sounds even sweeter without the gag than Peter ever dreamed he would. “He could hardly miss it. Even he’s not blind enough for that. But he didn’t want _you_ to know, didn’t want you going and getting yourself Turned before he could claim you—” His hips snap in _hard,_ then, tearing a little cry from Stiles’ throat. “Not before he could kill the big bad Alpha tearing through this little town, and take its power, Bite you and make you _his.”_

“F-fuck, _fuck,_ I don’t, why would he—w-want—oh, _God_ —”

Peter’s wolf preens to hear Stiles losing his grip on words, but can’t blame him; even the urge to rip his nephew’s throat out blurs and loses meaning as every inhale drags the scent of Stiles’ pleasure and desire deep into Peter’s lungs, only barely spiced now with the excitement of resistance. “Because ‘omega’ means ‘last’, Stiles. As in, the final power, the one who completes the circle. The one who protects the den and cares for the cubs; the last line of defence, as the Alpha is the first.” He nuzzles Stiles’ throat, dragging his teeth over the throbbing pulse-point, and growls approval at his mate’s whimper. “Isn’t that what you are, sweetheart?” he murmurs. “Wouldn’t you do _anything_ to protect the ones you love? Wouldn’t you die for them? Wouldn’t you _kill?”_

Stiles pants, and whines, but he doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t even try, just shudders and ducks his head even as he arches harder into Peter’s every thrust, and Peter wants to howl with triumph.

“I’ll build you a beautiful pack, Stiles,” he promises, shifting the hand at Stiles’ hip to wrap his arm around his mate’s waist, and Stiles rewards him with a heroin-sweet cry as he slams into Stiles harder, faster. “One worthy of your devotion, your loyalty. Fierce and strong and perfect. The family you always craved, and they’ll be all yours, yours and mine.”

Every thrust draws a high, wrecked sound from Stiles’ lips, and his knuckles are white where he holds Peter’s hand. “S-Scott—”

“Yes, of course we’ll keep him. He’s yours, isn’t he?” Stiles moans at that, and Peter laps the sweat from the tendons of Stiles’ neck. “Even Derek,” he adds magnanimously, more than a little drunk on the scent of his mate’s pleasure, the fluttering _clamp_ and _squeeze_ of Stiles’ hole around his cock. “If you want him. You’ll be able to keep him in line once you Turn, precious boy. He won’t be able to resist your power.”

“My S-sp—?”

“No, sweetheart. Not your Spark,” Peter says, heat like molten silver spilling through him. “Your power as an Omega.” He drags his teeth over the mark he left on that creamy skin earlier, and Stiles whimpers, bares his throat to his Alpha.

Peter grabs his hair and turns Stiles’ face to his, and finally, _finally_ takes that mouth in the deep, devouring kiss he’s been starving for since the gag appeared, licks his mate open wet and filthy and kisses him until Stiles is gasping, thrusting back to meet Peter’s cock, the chains rattling and clinking as Stiles tries to reach for him—

As Stiles kisses him _back_ —

“So good,” Peter murmurs, when they break to breathe. “So perfect for me, Stiles,” and hears the boy’s heartbeat stutter at the praise, hears him mewl against Peter’s lips—

“Omegas are rarer than diamonds,” Peter breathes, imprinting the words on Stiles’ mouth. “And a thousand times as precious. Priceless. Every Alpha _dreams_ of having an Omega mate.”

Stiles is gasping under him, writhing as he understands what Peter’s saying, every line of him a work of art and Peter swears he can feel it, the starfire-shine of his mate’s magic spiralling, gathering, building like an orgasm and promising to be just as soul-searingly good. His own heart pounds, wondering, hoping, hungry for it to be _this time,_ for it to finally happen. “What—w-why—”

“Because they can forge pack-bonds, silver boy. An Alpha can Turn new wolves, but an Omega makes them pack. Weaves them in and binds them.” Peter can’t help the soft growl of pleasure that escapes him as Stiles shudders, shudders and shakes— “Omegas aren’t _weak,_ Stiles. They draw other wolves to them as the moon draws us, irresistible, magnetic. An Alpha commands through strength, but an Omega’s smile will send a whole pack to war—unite them against an outside enemy, or even bring them to tear their own Alpha down.”

He nuzzles Stiles’ jaw. “An Omega just come into their gifts is vulnerable,” he says softly. “For a little while, an Alpha can force a bond on them, make them obey. That’s what Derek will have wanted; to be an Alpha, and have you as his own, to build his pack and have you hold them together. I almost can’t blame my idiot nephew for his crude scheming; there is no greater prize than an Omega to guard your cubs and tend your den, and for it to be not just any Omega, but _you...”_

He kisses the corner of his mate’s wet, swollen mouth. “When you Turn,” he whispers, “you’ll bring wolves to their knees for love of you, Stiles. You’ll be able to ensnare them in a slavery they’ll beg for, and the more you bind, the stronger you’ll be. If you fight, you’ll do it with the strength of every wolf you’ve bound to you—or you’ll unite and direct them like a General with their army. You will _not_ be weak, and you will _never_ be worthless.”

Stiles is breathing faster, and there’s no more pretence, nothing but desire and bliss in his scent, in the ethereally graceful, exquisitely desperate motions of his body. Peter isn’t sure Stiles even notices when the chains melt away like sugar in the rain, with the air hot and thick around them, almost vibrating with pleasure and power.

“But you’ll be mine,” Peter promises, his voice growing hoarser, rougher, more bestial as the pressure, the tension, builds and builds, anticipation and hunger honing the pleasure almost unbearably sharp. Stiles _whines_ with nothing but want as the base of Peter’s cock starts to swell, squirming back against the growing flesh as if to screw himself open on it. It makes Peter slam into him, giving him what he wants, unable not to. “You _are_ mine. As I am yours.” He squeezes Stiles’ fingers, slides his other hand to rest low on his mate’s stomach, knuckles brushing the boy’s desperately hard, dripping cock. “I won’t bind you,” he husks. “We’re already bound, Stiles. More deeply and purely than anything another Alpha could force on you. All you have to do is feel it, sweetheart.”

Stiles is panting, half-sobbed curses and needy whimpers escaping him as Peter’s knot plucks at his strained, tight hole, swelling a little more with every thrust. It hurts, it must hurt, but Stiles was born to be his and he only spreads his legs wider for it, lowers his hips a little to better the angle and Peter loves him for it, can hardly stand it, feeling Stiles dripping pre-come over himself and onto the sheets, smearing wet over Peter’s knuckles, Stiles clutching his other hand almost as tightly as his body closes greedy-needy around Peter’s thick, throbbing knot as it pushes inside, seals Stiles shut and stuffs him full, locks them together as inescapably as did the first moment they touched.

“Can you?” Peter asks hoarsely, his eyes garnet-red as Stiles cries out, just once, an almost-howl of some starving hunger sated, an aching hollowness finally filled. “Can you feel how deep I am inside you, Stiles?” The boy shudders and moans beneath him, melting into a bonelessness Peter’s never seen in him except in moments like this one, when he’s stretched so tight around Peter the werewolf can feel his mate’s heartbeat pulsing around his knot. The pain that would make anyone else tense up has Stiles turning warm and soft as a lit candle, relaxes him as nothing else can, and one doesn’t need a psychology degree to understand why. Not when Peter feels it too: the proof that Stiles is his, the impossibly arousing reassurance that his mate won’t, _can’t_ leave him.

Peter has Stiles caught, mounted, _mated_. But Stiles has _him_ just as surely, securely.

“Deep enough that I can never get out,” Peter says hoarsely, when he can speak. “Never leave you, never _want_ to. All yours, and yours alone.” He nuzzles the soft, sensitive spot behind Stiles’ ear, licks it. Carefully—oh, so carefully, so attentively tenderly with his fragile human mate!—he rolls his hips, just a little, and savours the deep moan it earns him. He does it again, grinding the flesh-fist of his knot over Stiles’ prostate softly, and Stiles _sobs,_ his free hand scrabbling at the sheets as a spurt of helpless pre-come slicks Peter’s fingers.

_“Peter!”_

Peter shudders with savage lust, primal triumph that sears like the full moon’s light; he presses his palm harder against Stiles’ stomach, holding the boy up, and swears he can feel the edge of his knot through his mate’s flesh, just. “I’m right here, Stiles,” he soothes through a mouth full of fangs, his voice rough-soft as satin. “I’m right here. I’ll always be here.” He continues to move his hips, so softly, so gently, moving his knot just a half-inch or so back and forth, and Stiles keens and clutches his hand so tightly that were he a werewolf, Peter’s fingers would undoubtedly be broken. Peter doesn’t care: let them break. He’s not letting go.

“You just have to let me in, silver boy,” he whispers. “Let me knot your soul along with your beautiful body, fill you up so you’ll never be empty again.” He brushes his lips, and the tips of his fangs, over Stiles’ jaw, rolling his hips steadily now, rocking back and forth over the teenager’s sweet spot as the sounds falling like jewels from Stiles’ lips grow higher and higher in pitch.

“Let me love you, sweetheart,” Peter breathes, like a promise, like a plea, like a prayer. “Let yourself be loved.”

Stiles’ body jolts as though struck by lightning, by bliss and by his own magic, and his cry as he comes—untouched, spilling his seed on the sheets from nothing more than the pleasure-pain of his Alpha’s knot inside him—breaks into a wolf’s howl mid-way through. It’s the sound as much as Stiles’ writhing, sin-silk cunt around his knot that drags Peter down with him, his own release taking him like jaws snapping shut around his throat; that sharp, that sudden, that deadly-perfect—and as he slams in deep and fills his mate with his come, Stiles tilts his head just enough for Peter to see Stiles’ Spark stain his eyes bright, full-moon Omega silver.

**Author's Note:**

> I might eventually write a sequel wherein BAMF!Omega!Stiles sets about taking over ~~the world~~ Beacon Hills with his Alpha mate. Who else wants to see Derek on his knees, helpless before his uncle’s Omega? That’s totally a thing that needs to happen, right?
> 
> ...Yeah, that’s totally a thing that needs to happen. *scribbles notes*


End file.
